


Tied Up

by illwick



Series: Unwind [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John, Bondage, Dom!John, Drug Addiction, Fluffy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Japanese Rope Bondage, Light BDSM, M/M, Power Dynamics, References to Drugs, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensory Deprivation, Subdrop, Under-negotiated Kink, Vanilla, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-08 08:25:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14101368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sometimes there are loose ends.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, heed the tags! There are very detailed references to drug addiction & abuse in this installment, as well as some not-so-healthy and under-negotiated D/S dynamics.

The silence in the back of the cab is deafening.

Usually, John didn’t mind it; the near-palpable stillness that stretched out between them in the aftermath of a case, the unspoken anticipation as they would sit mutely, eyes locked, the minutes ticking by at a glacial pace as they endured the interminable ride back to the flat, where they could finally _unwind._ The air between them would feel _electric,_ buzzing with an intangible energy, an unspoken promise of the pleasures they were about to experience at one another’s hands. It was a heady, intoxicating _rush,_ one that made John’s blood sing in his veins and made his heart beat triple-time so that he could hear it pulsing in his eardrums, deafening in its implications.

But tonight is not one of those nights.

Because it hadn’t been one of those cases. The _good_ cases, the _thrilling_ cases, the kind that got John hopped up on adrenaline and made Sherlock light up like a supernova.

No, this hadn’t been one of those cases.

They’d still solved it. Sherlock had cracked the case with yet another characteristic stroke of brilliance, and they’d caught culprit holed up in his lair, and Lestrade’s team had dragged him off and John and Sherlock had been summarily assured that justice for that monster would be swift and damning.

But it was cold comfort. Because in the lair were bodies of children.

Three of them. They’d been dead for a while-- ranging from 4 months to 2 years, from the initial look of it. Long before Sherlock had been pulled in on the case. There was no way Sherlock could blame himself for this one; there was nothing either of them could have done-- the children had died long before there’d been any evidence to connect their disappearances.

And when Sherlock’s assistance had been sought, he’d solved the case with blazing speed. He’d thrown himself into it completely; he hadn’t slept or eaten for days, and in the end, it had paid off: the missing child in question had been located just in time, his life spared.

But it was too late for the others.

Far, far too late.

So while John knows there’s nothing they could have done, nothing that could turn back the hands of time to fix the horrific wrongs that had been committed, there was no joy in solving this case. The images of the children’s corpses feel tattooed to the backs of his eyelids, and try as he might, he can’t blink them away. 

He briefly considers suggesting that they swing by Molly’s to pick Rosie up. It’s after two in the morning and Molly would undoubtedly be unamused by the late-night wake-up call, but the thought of burying his nose in Rosie’s perfect blonde ringlets and breathing in her familiar scent makes John’s chest clench with want.

He turns to ask Sherlock if that would be alright.

The words die on his tongue. Sherlock looks like death warmed over, and John’s suddenly reminded of the fact that the man hadn’t ingested anything besides nicotine and black coffee for upwards of 6 days straight. He looks pale and gaunt, the light in his eyes dim. He’s staring straight ahead at the partition in front of him, unseeing and lost.

John takes his hand. He knows now that picking up Rosie would be a mistake; as comforting as it would be to hold her in this moment, he knows that Sherlock won’t be in a place to take care of himself when they get home; John will need to oversee that first. He could pick up Rosie first thing in the morning, once Sherlock was feeling better.

The cab rolls to a stop, and Sherlock wordlessly pulls his hand away and clambers out the door. John fumbles about for the fare and follows him up the stairs.

There’s no surprises when he enters the flat; as expected, Sherlock clearly isn’t in the mood for a session. He’s not waiting on his knees in the living room, a look of rapt anticipation on his face, his eyes lighting up the moment John walks through the door… instead, John enters a darkened flat, the only light in the sitting room filtering in from the bathroom down the hall, where John hears the sounds of the taps turning on. Sherlock was showering, then. John can’t blame him; the fetid stench of the dilapidated halfway house they’d been in seems to cling to every fibre of his clothes, and he wrinkles his nose in disgust, stripping off his jumper as he makes his way towards the bedroom.

He deposits his clothes in the hamper, wraps himself in his dressing gown, makes his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and sits down to wait for Sherlock to be done in the shower.

An indeterminate amount of time later, the taps switch off, and John hears the door to the bedroom open and close. He rises and makes his way into the bathroom.

The air is thick with steam and the scent of Sherlock’s eucalyptus shampoo. John flips the water back on and steps under the scalding stream, then proceeds to scrub his skin raw with the bar of soap, as though somehow he could wash away the horrific visions of what they’d witnessed tonight. It doesn’t work, not by a long shot, but John manages to convince himself that if he can just stay awake long enough to get some food into both of them, everything will feel better in the morning.

He towels off, pulls on his pajamas, grabs his dressing gown, then makes his way back to the kitchen.

Sherlock isn’t there. He’s presumably in the bedroom, then, probably putting on his pajamas. He’ll join John soon. Content with the thought, John makes a pair of sandwiches, then pours two mugs of steaming water and puts the tea bags in to steep.

“Sherlock? I’ve made sandwiches. You need to eat.” John calls absently down the hallway over his shoulder.

No reply.

Sighing, he plods down the hallway and opens the bedroom door.

Sherlock is curled into a foetal position, huddled beneath the duvet in the centre of the bed. His eyes are closed.

John leans in closer.

He’s _asleep._

Something clenches and twists deep within John’s chest.

Christ, it had been _ages_ since Sherlock had just wrapped a case and wordlessly gone to sleep.

Since… well, since before they’d reconciled. In the time since they’d rekindled their physical relationship, they would always spend a bit of time regrouping following every case. Sometimes they’d be in the mood for a session, and they’d _unwind_ together for a few hours, John dominating Sherlock sexually until they’d both had their fill. Other times, they’d simply share a cup of tea and have some lovely (vanilla) sex. Rarer still, they’d share the tea and a few kind words before retiring to the bedroom together to sleep.

But Sherlock hadn’t just shut down and turned off entirely in a long, _long_ time.

It reminds John of how it used to be between them, years ago, before they’d become intimate. After a case, Sherlock would shut himself away in his room for his 14-Hour-Sleep-Of-The-Dead, leaving John to wonder if it was actually possible that this time he’d let his blood sugar get so low he’d dropped into a legitimate coma. John would fret and fuss but worry about overstepping his boundaries, and then 14 hours later Sherlock would re-emerge, a zombie brought back to life, staggering into the kitchen and demanding tea and a biscuit. It was a ritual of which John had not been particularly fond.

But it seems tonight, Sherlock has lapsed back into his old ways. John contemplates waking him, but he quickly dismisses the thought; waking Sherlock would be purely for _selfish_ reasons. Sure, he could make excuses about feeding him up and getting him hydrated after such a grueling case, but at the gory heart of it, John really just doesn’t want to be alone. It would be selfish to wake Sherlock just so he didn’t have to feel sad by himself.

So John flicks off the bedroom light and retires to the kitchen, where he eats his sandwich and drinks his tea at the table alone, the fluorescent light harsh and unforgiving as he stares at the pale flesh on the backs of his hands, the blue blood in his veins pulsing rhythmically beneath the surface. It’s mesmerizing.

He shakes himself out of it. Christ, he was exhausted. He rises to his feet, puts his dishes in the sink and Sherlock’s sandwich in the fridge, and goes to bed. He falls asleep with merciful ease, the fatigue overwriting the trauma of the evening in dark, benevolent strokes.

His eyes blink open and register only darkness. He rubs them, then turns onto his side to check the clock; it’s 5:28. Early, then, too early to be awake, and he wonders what could have disturbed him from such a deep and dreamless slumber.

And then he hears it: the rain. It’s pouring, the deafening kind of torrential downpour that echoes off the fire escape and thunders against the window panes, an oppressive white noise that envelopes everything in its path. He’d ordinarily find it soothing, to be lying cozy and safe in bed as the weather outside howled and raged, but tonight, it’s undeniably off-putting. Resigned, he sits up and stretches, then peers over to check on Sherlock.

The bed is empty.

John blinks a few times uncomprehendingly. Sherlock NEVER awoke during his Post-Case-Sleep-Of-The-Dead. John had been entirely convinced the man could sleep through a nuclear holocaust following a case-- was it possible that something as pedestrian as _rain_ had caused him to stir? How… odd.

Intrigued, he throws off the covers and fumbles for his slippers, then makes his way down the darkened hall, still bleary and disoriented. He makes it as far as the kitchen before he stops.

It’s completely dark in the flat, the only source of light the pale glow of the streetlamp outside, muted by the rain. Sherlock is sitting in his chair, his legs tucked tight to his chest, his chin resting on his knees. His face is completely blank, and he’s staring unseeingly into the empty fireplace.

John takes a few cautious steps. Sherlock doesn’t react.

“Sherlock?”

Nothing.

“Sherlock? Are… are you alright?” John enters the sitting room and approaches him slowly, as if afraid he’ll spook him if he gets too close. A part of him wildly wonders if Sherlock has randomly started sleepwalking.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes snap up to meet John’s, and his gaze is full of what John could only describe as _fury._ John stops dead in his tracks, his blood running cold.

“I want a hit.” 

Sherlock says the words so decisively that it takes John a moment to react.

“You… want a hit?” He repeats the words slowly, as if in a foreign language.

“Yes.”

“Of… cocaine?”

“Yes. Or I suppose heroin would do, in a pinch.”

Sherlock’s gaze is steady and unwavering. He’s glaring daggers at John, as though _daring_ him to refute him.

John opens his mouth, but he can’t seem to think of anything to say.

Sherlock simply stares at him, then his lips pull back into a grotesque grimace. “I want a hit.”

For as long as John has known Sherlock, and for all the ups and downs they’ve been through, he’s gradually come to realise that despite the fact he’s seen Sherlock at some real lows, he’s never really known Addict Sherlock. 

By the time John had met him, Sherlock had already been through his fifth and final round of rehab. Despite the Danger Nights that John had supervised early on, despite Sherlock’s brief flirtation with his old vices during the Magnussen case, and despite the near catastrophic relapse Sherlock had experienced at Mary’s urging, Sherlock’s drug use in the time John had known him had been relatively brief and circumstantial. He had struggled a bit getting back on the wagon the last time around, but thanks to the relentless support (and, well, _supervision)_ of his family and friends, Sherlock seemed, for the most part, free of the demons that once plagued him.

And John must admit, it’s always been hard for him to imagine Addict Sherlock. He knows it was bad. Hell, he knows it was _really_ bad. He’s put bits and pieces together over the years, from things Sherlock has mentioned or from incidents that Greg had let slip when a few too many pints had loosened his tongue, or from insinuations Mycroft had rudely made in John’s presence. 

He knows it was bad enough that at one point, Sherlock’s parents had cut off his trust fund and severed all ties with him. He knows it was bad enough that Sherlock once came to blows with Mycroft when he tried to admit him to another round of rehab. He knows that for a while, Sherlock exchanged sexual favours for product (Sherlock has never told him the details of that outright, but John’s not an idiot, and he’s perfectly capable of putting 2 and 2 together). And he knows that following Sherlock’s breakup with Victor Trevor, he’d taken Mrs. Hudson’s case in Miami, solved it, then overdosed three days later and nearly died in hospital there.

So that much he knows.

But for all that he knows, there is so much he _doesn’t_ know. He knows he could ask Mycroft, but that feels like a betrayal so deep, he could never forgive himself, regardless of whether Sherlock found out. He’s contemplated asking Sherlock’s parents (he gets along swimmingly with the both of them, and he knows they’d be honest with him), but he doesn’t want to make them relive their heartbreak. 

He once asked Greg about it point-blank, a few months back on a night when they were both loose-tongued after a couple of whiskeys at the pub. He hadn’t meant to take advantage of Greg’s lowered inhibitions, he really hadn’t, but it was more that the liquid courage was finally what had given him the balls to bring it up in the first place.

Greg had stared at him for a few seconds, eyes slightly unfocused but appraising. Finally, he shook his head and turned his gaze back to his whiskey glass.

“No can do, John. Sorry.”

John had been utterly confused. “Why not?”

When Greg looked back up, John was surprised to see that his gaze had softened, and he looked so damn _sad_ it nearly broke John’s heart. 

“Because that’s not my story to tell. If he wants you to know about it, he’ll tell you. But honestly, John, don’t ask him if you don’t need to know. Because it was bad. But it’s not bad anymore, and if you can just accept that and leave it be, that’ll be best for everyone.”

John had felt slightly abashed, and he could feel himself blushing. “Right. Sorry, I… I shouldn’t have asked. I just sometimes… wonder.”

Greg’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t.” And with that, he’d polished off the last of his drink.

But here, tonight, John feels like he’s awoken in a parallel universe in which some malevolent, demonic wraith has slipped into Sherlock’s skin and is wearing him like a coat. His face looks completely foreign and otherworldly, and his eyes are cold and demanding. There’s no hint of familiarity or warmth from where he’s glaring up at John, coiled in his chair like some wretched creature, awaiting John’s reaction to his demand.

John does his best to steady himself, despite the fact he feels like the floor has tilted precariously beneath his feet. “You… can’t, Sherlock. You can’t have a hit.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “But I want one.” His voice is a snarl, low and dangerous, and with slow, calculated precision, he unfurls his legs and moves to stand.

John takes a step backwards. He feels suddenly dizzyingly out of his depth. 

Because although John has seen Junkie Sherlock (the fumbling, manic, strung-out stoner that had made the occasional appearance over the past two years), this is demonstrably _not_ Junkie Sherlock. This is Addict Sherlock. And he is fucking _terrifying_ in his intensity.

“Sherlock? Sit down, please. We… we can talk about this.”

Addict Sherlock shakes his head slowly as he pulls himself up to his full height. “I don’t think so, John. I’m going out.”

He takes two bold strides in the direction of the front door. Without thinking, John steps into his path and plants his feet. Sherlock pulls to a halt, then cocks his head appraisingly. For one wild, horrifying second, John is fairly certain Sherlock is going to wind up and hit him.

“Kneel.” The word flies out of John’s mouth before he can even consider the implications of it. 

Sherlock blinks twice. He doesn’t move.

“Did I stutter, sweetheart? Kneel.”

In an instant, the fury dissipates from Sherlock’s face, and it’s replaced by an expression of utter _confusion_ as his legs fold elegantly beneath him. It looks almost as if his brain has been hijacked by his own transport, and it’s a completely disorientating result.

He stares up at John from his position of supplication, looking half-mutinous, half-relieved. John, for his part, feels like his heart is beating so rapidly he may pass out. He has _no fucking idea_ what to do.

He takes a deep breath, buying whatever time he can. He holds Sherlock’s gaze steadily in his own--it feels like if he so much as blinks, the spell will be broken, and Addict Sherlock will return with full force and lay him out. He has to _maintain control._

“Good. Stay.”

Sherlock freezes. 

John takes a slow, deliberate step forward. Sherlock doesn’t move. 

John takes another step. Nothing.

Slowly, John paces a circle around Sherlock’s stooped form. He analyses the angle of his shoulders, the curve of his spine. His eyes do a perfunctory sweep across his groin, checking for any indication of a burgeoning erection beneath the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, but he finds none. He’s not hard, so this isn’t sexual, then. This is something else completely. Something new.

John steels his reserve. 

This may be new, but he could do it. If Sherlock needed him, John would not-- _could_ not-- let him down. But first, he needs to get his wits about him, and figure out what in God’s name his next step should be.

“Stay right there. Don’t move.” It’s with a wave of relief that John notes his voice sounds considerably steadier than he’s feeling. He makes his way shakily to his own chair, and lowers himself into it.

Sherlock can’t see him here; he’s still knelt facing the door, and he makes no effort to turn in John’s direction, for which John is eternally grateful. John leans back into his chair and grips the armrests, breathing deeply through his nose, willing himself to stay calm.

He practices a few of the breathing exercises that he’d learned from Dr. Richards. They work, to an extent; by the time he’s finished with them, his heart rate seems almost back to normal, and his thoughts feel considerably less frantic. He keeps his eyes closed, lest he become distracted by Sherlock’s pale form, obediently rigid before him.

Finally, he feels ready to formulate a plan.

Admittedly, he hasn’t done much research about non-sexual power exchanges. Up until now, everything he and Sherlock have ever done during a power exchange has had distinctly sexual undertones at the very least, but most of the time the sexual implications were glaringly overt, with both of them openly aroused throughout the duration of their session. To have Sherlock kneeling before him like this without feeling even an _inkling_ of arousal is strange and frankly terrifying. It’s a power he has no clue how to wield.

But once he forces himself to focus, he does hazily recall some videos from one of the Japanese Bondage sites he’d started frequenting once he and Sherlock had begun to experiment with more controlled bondage play. One of the posters (he couldn’t recall her name) whose knot work he greatly admired was a practitioner of non-sexual bondage encounters, and he vaguely remembers her speaking openly about it as she demonstrated her immaculate rope techniques. He desperately wishes he had Sherlock’s capacity to recall information he’d heard in passing, but alas, he’s stuck with nothing but his feeble Mind Shack for reference, but he concludes that will have to do.

He doesn’t remember a lot of the wisdom she’d been imparting, but he does recall a few key points: _If your sub requests a non-sexual exchange, you must remember: It’s about relaxation, not pleasure. It’s about feeling cared for, not helpless. It’s about surrender, not submission._

Right. 

Right, he could do this.

He had all the tools at his disposal. He could do this.

Slowly, he rises and opens his eyes. Sherlock’s back visibly straightens in anticipation, and he can see a shiver work its way from the base of his spine up to his shoulders. Even in the dim light, John detects a sprinkling of gooseflesh rise across the back of Sherlock’s porcelain neck. He approaches Sherlock, and runs his fingertips lightly over it.

Sherlock shudders, but he doesn’t speak. He simply kneels, and waits.

John withdraws his hand. “Bedroom, now. Crawl.”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He tips forward instantaneously onto his hands and begins to make his way towards the kitchen, his movements steady and measured. He doesn’t arch his back and sway his hips suggestively the way he usually does when he crawls, reinforcing John’s conclusion that whatever is happening right now, it’s not meant to be sexual. 

John’s still getting used to the crawling - it’s fairly new to them, and experiencing it in this context is a little bit odder than John’s fully comfortable with. That said, he dutifully reminds himself that Sherlock has consistently been reviewing crawling favourably when they have their post-session Talks, so tonight, John will give it to him without hesitation.

He follows Sherlock into the bedroom, where Sherlock comes to a halt and kneels by the side of the bed, awaiting further orders.

John swallows. His throat feels thick and sticky, but luckily the sound is drowned out by the steady drum of rain against the windowpane. The room feels oppressively dark.

John approaches the nightstand and flicks on the light. Then he removes the duvet from the bed, fluffs the pillows, and steps back.

“Stand up. Strip. Leave your pajamas on the floor, no need to fold them.”

For a split second, he’s worried Sherlock will refuse. Though John’s well aware that this encounter isn’t intended to be sexual, he’d have no idea how to do a proper Kinbaku tie-up with Sherlock fully-clothed; all of the methodology he’s diligently researched (how to tell when the rope is too tight, how to measure the size of the pattern to maintain perfect symmetry, how to secure the knots in just the right place to maximize contact with specific pressure points) requires visibility of rope-on-skin contact, which means he needs Sherlock naked for any of this to work.

Luckily, Sherlock simply rises to his feet and shucks every stitch of clothing onto the floor. He leaves on John’s dog tags, which John takes as a good sign; their presence on Sherlock’s sternum is somehow incredibly comforting to him.

“Good. Gorgeous, sweetheart. Get on the bed now, face-up, hands by your sides.”

Sherlock complies wordlessly. His expression is completely unreadable, and John feels a slight waver of trepidation as he stands over Sherlock’s prone form. Sherlock’s cock is completely flaccid, which is such a radical departure from his state every other time they’ve done this, John finds his eyes constantly flicking over to it, his brain struggling to categorise the exact nature of what it is they’re doing here.

Fuck it, he has no fucking clue. He’ll just have to wing it.

“Alright, love. You’re being very, very good for me right now, and I’d like to reward you. Would you like that?”

Sherlock gives a brisk nod. He doesn’t meet John’s eyes. He looks nervous, too, and for the first time, John realises that Sherlock probably has no idea what the fuck is going on here, either; he’s trusting John completely to know what he wants, even if he doesn’t know it himself. It’s a burden John feels privileged to bear.

“Good. Stay.”

And with that, John makes his way to the closet to retrieve their ropes.

They’re nothing fancy or out of the ordinary, just a few plain lengths John had ordered after pouring over the Shibari message boards for hours, reading up on the various recommendations. He’d finally settled on these: four lengths of jute twine, 6 millimetres thick and 8 metres long, in a deep, midnight black-- the perfect tone to offset Sherlock’s exquisitely pale skin. The first time he’d used the ropes on Sherlock to create a proper Kinbaku pattern, John had found it so arousing he’d had to jerk himself off twice all over Sherlock’s half-restrained form before he’d even been able to finish the most simplistic of designs.

That said, though he and Sherlock both agreed that they enjoyed the practice, their encounters during a Japanese Bondage session always felt _different_ to John, in that the art of the rope bondage was not inherently a sexual act. Sure, after he finished restraining Sherlock he’d generally edge him, torture his nipples, or fuck him brutally (oh, who is he kidding, it’s always a combination of all three), the restraint _itself_ wasn’t a sex act.

Which may just make it the perfect compromise for tonight.

He emerges from the closet and approaches the bed, then holds up the ropes into Sherlock’s line of vision. Sherlock doesn’t react.

“Yes or no?”

It’s the only question John knows how to ask in this moment. He needs Sherlock’s consent - he needs some reassurance, _any_ reassurance, that Sherlock is with him in this. Whatever it is they’re doing, they’re doing it _together._

Finally, Sherlock opens his mouth.

“Yes.”

It’s not his usual _Yes, John,_ but it will have to do. Nothing that’s happening right now is normal, so John just takes it in stride, and gives him a curt nod.

“Alright, sweetheart. Good. You know the rules for when I’m using the rope, but let’s review them: You are not to move while I’m working on you. You are not to speak unless spoken to, unless it’s to tell me to slow down or stop, or to alert me to a circulation concern. You are to be patient, silent, and still. Is that understood?”

Sherlock nods. He’s still not making eye contact with John. Normally John would insist on verbal consent, but at this point, he’ll take what he can get.

“I will not restrict your air flow. I will not restrict your blood flow to the point it’s dangerous. If you find yourself feeling compromised on either of these fronts, you will tell me immediately. Understood?”

Another nod. This time, Sherlock closes his eyes instead of just looking away. John notices he’s blushing, and John has to take a deep breath before he starts on the next part.

“You’re not to… you’re not to…” He blinks down at Sherlock, who appears to be silently holding his breath, as if bracing himself against John’s words.

Sherlock surely knows what comes next in John’s rehearsed monologue. _You’re not to come without my permission. You’re not to stimulate your cock unless I’m doing it for you. I’ll be using your mouth and your arse as I see fit; if at any point you need to stop or pause, just say so. If you can’t speak, snap twice._

But tonight, the words die on John’s tongue. To utter them in this context feels obscene, unnatural--what they’re about to do has nothing to do with sex at all, so to preface it with such a vulgar disclaimer… It’s completely unnecessary.

So John skips it altogether.

“You’re not to… check out on me. I need you to stay with me tonight, sweetheart. Will you do that?”

Sherlock’s eyes blink open, and they meet John’s for the first time since he reclined on the bed; to John’s solace, they’re wide and filled with relief. He nods again.

John offers him a smile. “Good, sweetheart. Now, just stay here and relax. I’m going to get us ready to begin.”

With that, John turns and makes his way to the bathroom, where he rummages through the First Aid kit beneath the sink until he locates the EMT shears they keep inside. That’s the #1 rule he’s read on every Japanese Bondage site: always have an emergency escape method on-hand. 

He also grabs the bottle of lotion from underneath the sink; Sherlock's skin is extremely sensitive and prone to chafing, and he’s found putting a bit of lotion on his wrists and ankles before they start helps mitigate the worst of it. 

Satisfied, he turns and makes his way back to the bedroom.

Sherlock is still lying completely motionless on the bed, looking considerably more corpse-like than John’s comfortable with. John puts on his most calming, reassuring expression and approaches the bed with businesslike efficiency, placing the shears and lotion on the nightstand and smiling down at Sherlock.

“Alright, love, let’s get started. I’d like you to kneel on the bed facing away from me, arms at your sides. Nice and loose and relaxed, there we go, that’s _perfect,_ just like that.” John notes the way Sherlocks skin pimples into gooseflesh beneath his lavish praise. It seems he’s on the right track.

“So gorgeous. I’m going to put a bit of lotion on your wrists before we start, alright?”

Sherlock nods. He’s still not speaking, which is fairly uncharacteristic for him during a session, but John decides he can work with it.

He pumps some lotion into his hand and massages it into Sherlock’s left wrist, then repeats the gesture on the right. Sherlock’s arms hang limply at his sides, and his head sags forward towards his chest as John prepares him for what he’s about to endure.

“Beautiful. Now, sweetheart, I’ll be doing a new pattern for you tonight, so you’ll need to be patient. It’s called ‘Dragonfly Sleeve.’ Have you heard of it?” John had been watching the instructional video every chance he got, anticipating the next time he’d be able to use it in a session. He’s not sure whether or not Sherlock had checked his internet history and noticed it, though. (He’s found that when it comes to their D/S dynamics, Sherlock was rather intentionally obtuse about what John was researching-- John assumes it’s part of their power exchange, for Sherlock to voluntarily give up visibility on what John has planned. It’s rather… sweet.)

In front of him, Sherlock slowly shakes his head.

“Alright. Here’s what’s about to happen: I’ll be binding your arms to your sides, angled back slightly, but it shouldn’t be enough to put pressure on your shoulders. If you start to feel discomfort in your shoulders, I’ll need you to tell me, as you’ll be in this bind for a while. Understood?”

A nod.

“Good. The final bind should be secure but not tight, allowing you a restricted range of motion so we can keep you in the bind longer. Yes?”

Another nod.

“Excellent. If you’re very good, I’ll take some pictures with the camera to show you how it looks on you. Would that be good?”

A nod-- much more vigorous this time.

John grins. The Kinbaku really appealed to Sherlock’s exhibitionist streak, and he seemed to enjoy John taking pictures of him tied up for them to review together later. They’d already negotiated the terms of photography during their encounters: Polaroids only, no film, nothing digital, and only with Sherlock’s case-by-case consent. John didn’t take pictures very often, regardless; only when Sherlock was cross-dressing or being artistically bound. 

“Alright. Let’s begin.”

And with that, John picks up a length of rope, and takes a deep breath.

He’d watched the video for this pattern recently enough that it’s still fresh in his mind, but he forces himself not to rush. He makes each step measured and deliberate, checking his spacing and framing diligently as he works, avoiding the radial nerve while still maintaining the integrity of the design.

It’s a while before John notices how deeply Sherlock is breathing. He’s heaving in heavy, self-soothing sighs, his muscles quivering as he adjusts to the pressure of his bindings.

“How are we doing, sweetheart?” John pauses, his fingers pulling the rope taught to hold the pattern in place while he waits for Sherlock to get his bearings.

Sherlock is silent for a long time, but John just waits. He needs an answer.

“I’m… John, I’m… it’s still… too much input. It’s too bright. I can feel… It’s too bright. Too much.”

John takes a blazing-fast assessment of the situation. The lighting in the room wasn’t bright at all-- the only source of it was the lamp on the nightstand, which was warm and mild. From outside, the rain impeded any other source of light from coming in through the window.

So Sherlock clearly didn’t mean that literally. So what _did_ he mean?

Overstimulated. He’s still feeling overstimulated. His brain was still in the hypersensitive mode it entered when he was working a case, the mode that Sherlock and John used _unwinding_ to switch off. But something about what John’s done so far isn’t quite doing the trick.

He quickly formulates a plan.

“Alright, love, let me take care of it for you.” He hastily ties a sloppy box knot in the rope just to hold his place, then rises off the bed and makes his way to the closet. He grabs Sherlock’s scarf off its peg by the door, and returns to the bed as quickly as he can. He crawls up behind Sherlock (desperately fighting off the urge to kiss the back of his neck as he does so; he’s fairly certain Sherlock doesn’t want to be touched affectionately yet) and reaches around him to hold the scarf in front of his face, revealing his intentions.

“Will you close your eyes for me, love?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Good, lovely. Going to blindfold you for a bit, see if we can’t get things a little less bright for you, okay?”

Sherlock nods, and John wraps the scarf lovingly around his eyes before securing it at the back of his head.

Next, John reaches around Sherlock’s chest to where his dog tags are hanging on his sternum. Gently, he lifts them up and places them delicately against Sherlock’s lips.

“Would you like these in your mouth, sweetheart? Open up, there we go, beautiful! Gorgeous. Go ahead and suck on them for a little bit. Does that feel better?”

“Mmmmm.” Sherlock lets out an rumbling, contented moan, and John smiles to himself.

“Good, good. I’m going to get back to your binding now, love, but you just let me know if you need something else, yeah?”

A slow, dazed nod. Satisfied, John sits back on his heels, and returns his full attention to the Dragonfly Sleeve. 

Within minutes, Sherlock’s muscles have gone lax against the constriction of the ropes; clearly the sensory deprivation is working. His breathing is deep and regular, and his hands appear soft and relaxed as John concludes the pattern with an elaborate knot at Sherlock’s wrists. He tugs lightly at the series of knots lining Sherlock’s spine, checking their integrity. Satisfied, he pulls away to admire his work.

It’s good, for a first attempt, if he does say so himself. He’s getting much better at the spacing portion, and his knots actually lie flat now (for a while, it seemed everything he tried resulted in twisted knots that dug into Sherlock’s skin, ruining the effect entirely). But tonight, everything has gone according to plan, and Sherlock looks _exquisite_ all dolled up and pliant.

John knows under most other circumstances, he’d be insanely aroused by the spectacle, but tonight he just feels a sense of calm satisfaction wash over him. Yes, Sherlock looks beautiful, but he’s also clearly still in a fragile state, and John’s cock remains appropriately respectful of that fact.

“You look perfect, sweetheart. I need you to check in with me now, but I know your mouth is busy with those tags, so you don’t have to speak, you can just nod or shake your head. Will you flex your hands for me?” A nod, then Sherlock’s hands are opening and closing, and John reaches down to lightly grasp them and check for blood flow.

“Good, good. Do you feel any numbness or tingling?” Sherlock shakes his head.

“Is there any pain in your shoulder region?” Sherlock shakes his head again.

“Excellent. It seems we’re all set, then. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to do your legs now. Is that something you’d like tonight?” There’s a short pause, and then Sherlock nods. John knows that having his legs bound is sometimes a bit overwhelming for him, but he’s fairly certain that tonight, it’s something Sherlock would enjoy.

“Alright, love. Let me help you, now.” John places one hand reassuringly on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other on the small of his back, grounding him; he knows Sherlock’s balance will be compromised, with his arms bound and his blindfold on.

“I need you to rotate 90 degrees, so we can stretch you out on the bed. Nice and slow, yes, just like that.” Sherlock slowly shuffles on his knees until he’s facing the headboard.

“Perfect, sweetheart. I’m going to help you lie down, now, alright? I’ll support you by the ropes. I need you to trust me and just lean forward. I won’t let you fall, okay?” Sherlock nods, and John wraps his fingers into the knotwork lining his back. Then Sherlock slowly begins to lower his torso, and John uses the ropes to brace him as he lowers him gently to lie face-down on the bed.

“Beautiful. Gorgeous. Will you stretch your legs out behind you now? Perfect, love. Hold nice and still. I’m just going to bind your ankles, but I need you to be good. Will you be good while I do that?”

Sherlock’s head is turned to the side, nuzzled into the pillow. He nods briefly, then resumes sucking on John’s tags.

“Lovely.” John turns to the nightstand to retrieve a bit more lotion, which he rubs into Sherlock’s delicate ankles. Then he retrieves another piece of rope, and gets to work.

He uses a simple double column tie; the Sleeve had been challenging enough, and at this point, he just wants to get them to a place where they can relax for a bit. Sherlock remains motionless as John completes his task, then gives his feet a firm squeeze.

“Can you wiggle your toes for me, love? Good, excellent. Any pain or numbness?” Sherlock shakes his head. “Amazing. You look gorgeous. If you’re feeling up for it, I can rig you up and take a picture or two for later. Would you like that?”

A firm nod.

“Alright, sweetheart. This will be a simple one. Just bend your knees, bring your ankles up behind you, perfect, excellent!” John takes the loose end of the rope binding Sherlock’s ankles and pulls it through the top cross section of the Sleeve, between Sherlock’s shoulders. He pulls the rope taught, securing Sherlock’s ankles in a suspended position behind his back, and ties the rope securely in place. Sherlock gives a little moan and burrows his face further into the pillow. He keeps John’s tags resolutely in his mouth, then rolls his shoulders luxuriously.

“Beautiful. Comfortable?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Alright. I’ll take a picture or two, then we’ll relax together for a bit.”

John digs the Polaroid camera out of the bottom drawer of the nightstand, and pops in two pieces of film. Then he unsteadily gets to his feet on top of the mattress, standing over Sherlock on the bed, and aims the camera straight down over him. It’s an awkward angle to get the shot, but John knows the overhead image will capture the pattern most dramatically, and he wants Sherlock to be able to fully appreciate it when he shows it to him later.

The film pops out, and John deposits it on the nightstand. Then he lowers himself to his knees, climbs off the bed, and walks to stand by the doorway. From there, he has a perfect view of Sherlock, beautiful, blindfolded, trussed up like a goddamn _gift,_ the chain from John’s dog tags hanging loosely from his lips.

Fucking _gorgeous._

John raises the camera to his eye, frames the shot, and pushes the button.

The camera clicks and whirls, and John grabs the second piece of film and puts it on the nightstand next to the first. As much as he’d like to sit and wait for them to develop, he knows there are more pressing matters at hand.

“Alright, love, that was perfect. I’m going to unrig you now so that you can stretch out, yeah?”

“Mmmhmm.” John’s glad Sherlock’s amenable; as much as he loves rigging him up, John’s still figuring out what the proper limits are for positions like that, and it’s with a distinct sense of relief that he knows he’ll be absolved of that duty tonight.

He detaches the ankle rope from where it was tied between Sherlock’s shoulders, then lowers his feet back to the bed. Sherlock lets out a contented sigh as he stretches out to his full length.

John pauses. He’s not entirely sure where to go from here. Were this a normal session, now is the time he’d edge Sherlock for a while, or maybe roll him over and put some clothes pegs on his nipples and tweak them until he cried. Or he might rim him until he was begging and flustered and writhing before fucking him brutally into the mattress, forbidding him to come as John took his pleasure uninhibited. Or he’d use the vibrator to induce a series of orgasms, until Sherlock was sweaty and spent and fucked out, then toy mercilessly with his tender hole as he jerked himself off over the entire pornographic tableau, Sherlock wailing helplessly beneath him.

But tonight, none of that sounds appealing in the slightest. As soothing as this ritual has been, it hasn’t felt erotic in the least, so John’s a bit lost on where to take things next.

So he takes a deep breath, and centres himself. So far, his intuition has been spot-on tonight; he seems to be taking them in the right direction. So he simply needs to listen to his gut.

So what does he want now?

Some comfort. Comfort and relaxation.

Simple enough.

John climbs onto the bed beside Sherlock’s prone form, and he props his own pillow up against the headboard, then sits back against it.

“Alright, love. I’d like to hold you for a little bit now, would that be okay?”

To his surprise, Sherlock relinquishes his tags from where they’d been resolutely held inside his mouth. He licks his lips, wetting them, then speaks. “Yes. Yes, please.”

John smiles. “Alright. Can you roll onto your side so that you’re facing me? Here, I’ll help…” He takes Sherlock by the shoulder and helps him turn, and Sherlock goes willingly. “Beautiful. Now I’m going to bring you towards me and put your head in my lap. Is that okay?”

Sherlock swallows thickly. _“Yes, please, John.”_

It’s the most like himself he’s sounded since they started this tonight.

“Good. Here we go, come with me now, just like that…” In slow, controlled motions, he helps Sherlock re-orient himself so that he’s lying with his head on John’s thigh. He’s still wearing the blindfold and his arms are bound firmly to his sides, so his movements are slow and uncoordinated, but he seems to be as cooperative as he can considering the circumstances.

As he settles into John’s lap, they both let out a breath simultaneously; it’s one John didn’t know he’d been holding. 

But having Sherlock here, like this, tied up and blindfolded but resting peacefully in his lap, Christ, it feels so _right_ John feels overwhelmed with the perfection of it. With one trembling hand, he reaches down and begins to card his fingers gently through Sherlock’s hair.

_“Oh, God, John, yes. Yes.”_

Sherlock’s voice is low and husky, so full of aching devotion that John actually looks down at Sherlock’s crotch to see if he’s become sexually aroused. To his not-quite-surprise, Sherlock is still completely flaccid; it seems his reaction to this turn of events was entirely emotional.

Perfect. So they were still on the same page.

“Mmmm, yes, sweetheart. So good. This is so good. Just relax for me, now, just relax. I’ve got you. Just stay here with me, love. Just breathe. Shhh. Shhh…”

And for a long, long time, they sit in stillness, listening to nothing but the rain and the sound of one another’s breathing.

John doesn’t feel tired anymore. He’s surprised to find that despite his lack of arousal, he’s very firmly in his Dominant headspace; he feels hyper-vigilant, protective, and almost agonisingly attuned to every twitch and shiver of the man beside him. He rakes his eyes over Sherlock’s form as he continues to soothingly stroke his hair, and he watches in rapt fascination as the tension melts away from Sherlock’s body as he surrenders to John completely.

Finally, John is satisfied that Sherlock is completely under. As much as he’d like to stay in this moment for eternity, he knows that there’s more he needs to do to take care of him before they’re through. 

He reluctantly lifts Sherlock’s head from his lap and places it back on the pillow beside him. Sherlock lets out an indignant whimper.

“Shhh, sweetheart, you’re okay. We’re okay. But I need to get you something to eat and drink, alright? We have to take care of your transport now, love. Will you let me do that?”

Sherlock seems to consider it for a beat, but finally, he speaks. “Yes, John.”

“Good. Let’s get you sitting up, hmm? Bring your legs in towards you, yes, just like that, now take it easy, I’m going to support you with the ropes, but I need you to help me sit you up, yeah? _Good, good, sweetheart,_ that’s perfect, there we go.” Sherlock sways a bit in his sitting position, and John waits for him to stabilise before relinquishing his hold on the ropes. He gently puts one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and uses the other to pull his pillow up and prop it against the headboard.

“Okay, love, lean back now, there’s a pillow there to support you. Yes, just like that. Is that too much pressure on the ropes around your arms?”

Sherlock seems to take stock of the situation as he slowly stretches his legs out in front of himself. “No, John.”

“Okay. If it gets uncomfortable, just sit forward a bit, yeah?”

“Yes, John.”

“Alright. I’m going to the kitchen now, but you can call for me if you need me.”

Sherlock nods, and with that, John makes his way to the kitchen.

He pulls the sandwich he’d made for Sherlock earlier out of the fridge, then he fills up a glass with water and a straw. Almost as an afterthought, he rummages through the cupboard until he finds the stash of chocolate bars he’d started keeping for times like these, and he breaks a few pieces off and adds them to the plate as well. Then he heads back to the bedroom as hastily as he can.

Sherlock is sitting stock-still, his arms loose in their bindings by his sides. He seems totally relaxed.

Smiling to himself, John places the plate on the nightstand a climbs into the bed to sit next to him. Then he reaches up to remove the blindfold.

“No!” Sherlock jerks his head away so quickly he nearly topples over to the side; John manages to catch him just in time by one of the ropes affixed to his shoulder, and pulls him back upright.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” John’s heart is racing, and he notes he’s spilled some of the water onto his own lap in the fray.

“Leave it on. The blindfold. Leave it. It’s helping. Please.” Sherlock’s words are tight and desperate, and John feels his chest clench in sympathy.

“Of course, love, of course. We can leave it on. I’m going to be helping you eat and drink a little bit now, though; do you trust me to do that with your blindfold on?”

“Yes, John.”

“Okay, then. Water first. Open your mouth, please.”

Sherlock complies without hesitation, and John gingerly guides the straw between his parched lips.

 _“Slowly_ now, sips please, no gulps. Easy there, sweetheart… _There_ we go, just like that, much better. That’s perfect.” John watches with satisfaction as Sherlock makes his way through half the glass at a deliberate pace, pausing to swallow each mouthful of water before taking on the next.

“Beautiful. That’s enough for now.” He pulls the cup away and places it on the nightstand, then picks up the plate. He places it in his own lap, and makes quick work of tearing the sandwich into reasonably bite-sized pieces; it’s a slightly messy ordeal, but he hasn’t got a better alternative at hand. “Alright, sweetheart, going to feed you up a bit. Open your mouth for me, yeah?”

Sherlock does, and the amount of trust he’s placing in John in this moment makes his heart flutter. He looks completely at ease.

John picks up a piece of sandwich and places it onto Sherlock’s eager tongue. Sherlock closes his lips gently around John’s fingers as he does so, suckling them lightly before John pulls them away. “Chew for me, nice and slow, just like that, perfect. Here we go, another bite now, open up, love…”

And just like that, they work their way through the entire sandwich. To his delight, when John places the first piece of chocolate in Sherlock’s mouth, it comes as such a surprise that Sherlock lets out an enthusiastic moan and smiles, he actually _smiles,_ and John feels all warm and gooey inside and has to use every ounce of willpower he has not to lean over and snog him senseless then and there.

But he shows restraint and simply carries on feeding Sherlock one bite at a time, until all the chocolate is gone. He lets Sherlock suck on his fingers for a little while after they’re finished; he’s noted this is something Sherlock seems to be into when they’re incorporating feeding into their aftercare, and tonight seems to be no exception. For John, it’s a pleasant sensation, entirely unobjectionable.

Eventually he withdraws his thumb from where Sherlock had been teething lightly at it, and Sherlock lets it go with a disappointed sigh. 

John checks the clock; he’s keeping track of how long he’s had Sherlock in the bind, and he’s relieved to see they still have more than an hour left; plenty of time.

He picks up the half-empty glass of water from the nightstand and lifts the straw back to Sherlock’s lips. “Alright, sweetheart, a little more water now, okay? Open up. Nice and slow. Beautiful.” Sherlock drains the glass, and John places it back on the nightstand.

“Perfect. Love, I’d like to lay you down for a little bit longer, maybe give you a massage. Does that sound good?”

“Yes, please, John.”

“Alright. Sit forward a bit, yes, just like that. Scoot down towards the foot of the bed, yeah, perfect, now can you lie back for me slowly? I’ve got the ropes, I’ll help you down… perfect, perfect, there we go. Now can you roll onto your stomach for me? Beautiful! That’s it, just like that.” John helps get Sherlock situated so that he’s comfortably positioned stretched out on his stomach in the centre of the bed.

“Gorgeous, love. I’m going to go refill your water and pick up the massage oil, alright? Will you be okay here?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock sounds deeply relaxed, and he snuggles his face contentedly into the pillow.

“Good. Shout if you need me.”

“Hmm.”

With that, picks up the empty plate and glass and makes his way back to the kitchen. He refills the water glass and is just turning to stop by the bathroom to grab the massage oil from under the sink when a pounding on the front door makes him nearly jump out of his skin.

 _“Jesus.”_ He hisses under his breath to no one but himself. It’s not even 8 o’clock in the morning, and it was still pouring buckets outside. Who the hell would be coming to their flat at this hour? His heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

More pounding. John feels completely discombobulated; an intrusion from the outside world on such a private moment has thrown him completely for a loop. The pounding doesn’t relent, and he resigns himself to opening the door, despite the fact he currently can’t think of anything he’d like to do less. He frantically takes a moment to run his hands down the front of his pajamas to spread out the wrinkles, as though that would somehow make him seem more presentable, then makes his way to the sitting room to grab the doorknob. 

He steels himself, and turns the handle.

“Where the fuck is he?” Greg pushes past John so quickly and aggressively, John stumbles to the side as he barges into the sitting room.

Shit. Mrs. Hudson must’ve let him up.

“Greg? What are you doing here?”

“Sherlock. Where the _fuck_ is he?” Greg’s agitated state sends alarm sirens blaring in John’s brain, and he can feel his hackles raising on instinct.

“He’s not available right now, Greg. It’s barely past dawn. You can text him later.”

Greg rounds on him, fury written across his face. “Oh, hell, no. He’s not getting off that easy. I need to see him. NOW.”

“What’s he done?” John’s brain is scrambling to diffuse the situation, but none of this is making a lick of sense.

“What’s he DONE? Did you SEE the case report he filled out before he left the scene?”

John squints uncomprehendingly back at Greg. “Uh, no, I don’t usually proofread his--”

“LOOK.” Before John knows what’s happening, Greg is thrusting a handful of rain-soaked papers under his nose. John takes them in his hand and runs his eyes over them. He can feel his eyebrows rising as he reads.

The language Sherlock had used on his official report was… well, _beyond_ colourful. There were some phrases written there that John had never pieced together before himself, and he’d served in the bloody _Army._ It was truly, profoundly inappropriate.

He blinks down at the papers a few times, then glances up at Greg, who’s quivering in righteous indignation. “We have a bloody SERIAL KILLER in custody, a fucking CHILD MURDERER, and the brass is up our arses to get the paperwork submitted immediately so that they can make an official statement. And then. I. Find. THIS.”

John licks his lips. He’s at a loss for words.

“I can’t FUCKING TURN THIS IN. I need a revised statement. NOW.”

John swallows, and wills himself to be diplomatic. “Alright, Greg. I’ll get him to revise it, and then I’ll bring it over to the station myself. I can have it--”

“Not a fucking chance, Watson. Where is he.” Greg turns to face the kitchen, craning his neck to peer down the hallway, clearly trying to see the state of the bedroom door.

“He’s-- he’s not here!” John’s suddenly frantically aware that he needs to diffuse this situation, STAT. Sherlock was in no state for company.

“Where the FUCK is he?” Greg rounds on him, his eyes wild. John takes two steps back.

“He… Um, he went to pick up Rosie. From Molly’s. He’ll… he’ll be back in a bit, and I’ll go through the paperwork with him, and I’ll hand-deliver it to you myself. Swear to God.”

Greg’s eyes narrow, but he falls mercifully quiet. Finally, he lets out an exasperated huff.

“Fine. But let him know, I don’t find this fucking amusing. He’s in deep shit.”

“Right. Of course. I’ll tell him.”

“Good.” With that, Greg turns on his heel and makes his way towards the front door.

John can feel himself relax.

But then Greg stops. John follows his gaze to the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock’s Belstaff is draped haphazardly over it.

_Shit._

In an instant, Greg rounds on John once more, his face more full of fury than John’s ever seen it.

“You lying sonofabitch.” And with that, he shoves past John and strides through the kitchen towards the hallway, making his way towards the closed bedroom door.

John doesn’t entirely recall what happens next. The next the he knows, he’s throwing Greg bodily up against the wall of the hallway, and pressing his forearm resolutely across Greg’s throat. He’s speaking, he’s distantly aware of that, but his words seem to be coming from some place deep and primal within him.

“If you take one more step towards the bedroom, so help me God, I will _kill_ you.”

Greg’s eyes are wild, and he struggles to gasp out a sentence against the punishing pressure of John’s forearm. “What...the… HELL, John--” He struggles futilely against John’s relentless grip.

For a moment, John almost comes to his senses, but then he’s hit with another potent wave of testosterone, and the enormity of what’s at stake here leaves him powerless in his wake. Just on the other side of that door, Sherlock was tied up, helpless, weak, exposed. He was depending on John to keep him _safe,_ to keep him _protected,_ and to allow someone else to see him when he was so entirely compromised would be a breach of trust so total that John knows neither of them would ever recover. Sherlock had let John put him under with the understanding that John would stay in control. And John will not let him down. John will protect him.

b

John speaks again, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m going to let you go, Greg. And you are going to turn around and walk out of this flat, and you are not going to come back unless you are explicitly invited. If you walk into that bedroom, I promise you, this is the last time you will see me or Sherlock ever again. We will not work with you. We will not speak with you. Everything that we have here will be permanently, irretrievably lost. Am I making myself clear?”

Greg’s eyes are beginning to bulge a bit, and his face is turning an odd shade of puce. Regardless, he manages a frantic nod.

“Good.” John relinquishes his hold on Greg’s throat, and Greg staggers away, gasping desperately.

“Jesus CHRIST, what has gotten _into_ you?” He’s glaring at John, but he’s mercifully retreating towards the sitting room, so John simply stands his ground, his feet planted resolutely blocking further access to the hall.

“Frankly, Greg, it’s none of your concern. But let’s just say it’s in your best interest not to bother us for a few hours following the conclusion of a case. Understood?”

Greg shakes his head and then turns, slapping the papers down on the kitchen table before walking out the front door, slamming it behind him.

John collapses against the wall of the hallway and sinks to the floor, shaking from head to foot.

God help him, that was… that was… there are no words for what that was. The whole world feels upside down, and he feels dizzy and nauseous and utterly disorientated. He realises he and Sherlock have never been interrupted during a session before, and the sensation is so off-putting he feels like he might actually be sick. He’s debating whether he needs to run to the toilet when he hears Sherlock’s voice from behind the bedroom door.

“John? John! John, please… John…”

His heart leaps into his throat, and within moments he’s on his feet at Sherlock’s bedside.

Sherlock is shaking and covered in sweat. He looks pale and ill, and John leans down to run his hand up his spine, to gentle him, to reassure him, but Sherlock just shakes harder.

“John. John, please, what…”

“Shhh, Sherlock, it’s alright, it’s alright, I’ve got you.”

“What...w-w-what…” Sherlock is stammering he’s shaking so hard, and John lowers himself to the bed and pulls Sherlock into his arms.

“Shhh, shhh, you’re alright. You’re alright. Someone came to the flat, but he’s gone now, you’re safe. You’re safe, you’re with me, I’ve got you, I’ll keep you safe…”

“J-j-jesus Christ…” Sherlock’s teeth are chattering, and John holds him tight, frantically trying to figure out what to do.

“Do you want me to untie you, sweetheart?”

“N-n-no, God, no, please...h-h-hold me, just hold me… F-f-fuck…” A particularly violent shiver works its way through his body, and John squeezes him as tightly as possible.

“Blindfold on or off, love?”

“Nnnngh, off, please, want to… want to...s-s-see you…”

John pulls the scarf from Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock blinks up at him, bleary and helpless.

“It’s okay, love. You’re okay. Just relax. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock purses his lips and takes a shaky breath through his nose. “F-f-fuck, what the h-h-hell…”

“It’s okay, love, sometimes this happens. I’ve read about it on one of those websites I’ve told you about. Sometimes if you’re interrupted when you’re in a different headspace, things can get really overwhelming. Being intruded on in the middle of a session is… really, really scary.”

John can’t really think of a better way to describe it, but that’s how he’s feeling right now; like he was just frightened out of his goddamned mind. He feels weirdly paranoid, almost like he’s high.

“Are… nnngh, are you okay?” Sherlock’s peering up at him with concern in his eyes, and John’s heart seems to swell with emotion at his thoughtfulness.

He smiles down at him as reassuring as he can. “I… um, I will be. I was really thrown for a loop, too. This is… Christ, this is really weird, huh?”

Sherlock lets out a shaky laugh, and John starts laughing too, and for a moment they just giggle helplessly, both shaking and sweating and riding the weird adrenaline high as their brains struggle to recalibrate and reach equilibrium.

Eventually, Sherlock stops shaking, and John stops feeling like he might puke all over the place. The world still feels really blurry and surreal, but John at least feels stable enough to speak. He takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Okay. Um, okay, alright, I’m… Jesus.” He blinks a few times. He doesn’t know quite what to say. Usually at the end of a session there were orgasms and aftercare and snuggling and a pleasant sort of afterglow, but tonight they’ve got none of the above. That said, John’s pretty sure he’s not going to be able to get properly back into his Dominant headspace again, so the whole thing is probably a wash at this point. “I think… I think we need to, um, wrap things up here?” 

Sherlock shifts in his bindings, then grins up at John. “Or perhaps, _unwrap_ them, as it were?”

John groans and rolls his eyes, but he feels a wave of reassurance wash over him. If Sherlock was feeling well enough to make stupid puns, he was probably okay.

“Alright, smartarse, let’s get you on your stomach.” He helps gently roll Sherlock off of him and onto his stomach, and John straddles him and begins to untie the bindings. Sherlock goes lax and pliant beneath him, and John’s fingers make quick work of the ropes.

He unties Sherlock’s arms first, then checks his circulation diligently. He’s already showing signs of significant bruising, but that’s to be expected (if not _anticipated;_ Sherlock _adored_ the marks the bondage left on him, and John would find him prodding them with a gleeful look in his eyes for days afterwards).

Satisfied, he moves down and unties Sherlock’s ankles, then give his feet a good rub. His toes are warm and responsive; no signs of impeded blood flow.

John reluctantly rises to fetch the duvet, which he throws over the bed, then crawls beneath it and pulls Sherlock tight to his chest. Sherlock comes willingly, and heaves a deep sigh.

“You okay, Sherlock?”

“Mmm. I will be. Think I just… need sleep, now. I’ll sleep it off.”

“Okay. I’m going to try and sleep a little, too. Wake me if you need, me, yeah?”

“Mmmm.” He’s already drifted off.

John follows swiftly after.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a little after 7 in the evening when Sherlock emerges from the bedroom--a few hours short of his customary 14 hours of sleep. He staggers into the kitchen and leans against the doorframe, then gives John a doting smile.

John smiles back from his place on the sitting room sofa. He’s got Rosie asleep on his chest; she’d passed out midway through her bedtime story, and John was so exhausted, he’d yet to muster the strength to stand up and take her upstairs to the nursery.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” John keeps his voice a low murmur, so as not to awaken Rosie.

“Hi, John.”

“Feeling alright?”

“Mmm. Yes. Much better.” 

“Good. You hungry? I made a plate for you and put it in the fridge. If you wait a sec, I’ll put Rosie down and then pop it in the microwave for you.” He shifts and stands, holding Rosie close.

“Actually, could… um, could I take her? I can put her down myself.” Sherlock’s eyes are laced with sadness, and John’s heart aches with his.

Because seeing the bodies of those children like that had impacted them both. And while John knows that Sherlock often has trouble expressing emotions, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _feel_ them. He needs time now, just the same as John.

“Of course. Here.” John hands Rosie’s slumbering form over to Sherlock, who pulls her tenderly into his arms and then lowers his lips to her angelic curls. Sherlock’s eyes close, and he breathes. For a moment, he simply stands still, embracing Rosie as if she’s the most precious thing on Earth. Then he turns and begins to make his way upstairs to the nursery, the soft tones of a lullabye drifting down the staircase in his wake.

John’s eyes fill with tears, and he turns swiftly to the kitchen before they have a chance to brim over. He busies himself preparing Sherlock’s dinner, and he’s just about to put the kettle on when his mobile pings.

INCOMING TEXT FROM: Greg Lestrade  
<2 March 19:12> You there?

JW  
<19:12> Yes.

JW  
<19:12> I don’t have the documents ready yet  
<19:13> I’ll get them for you tomorrow

GL  
<19:14> It’s okay  
<19:14> Take your time

JW  
<19:14> Thanks

GL  
<19:19> I’m sorry

<19:20> It’s obvious I intruded on something really personal between the two of you, and that wasn’t my intention

<19:20> Please accept my apology.

JW  
<19:22> Apology accepted.  
<19:22> In the future, just call or text. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.

GL  
<19:22> Noted.  
<19:23> And I really am sorry.

JW  
<19:25> I know it wasn’t intentional.  
<19:25> Please just don’t let it happen again.

GL  
<19:26> It won’t.

John pockets his phone with a sense of relief. Although he shudders to think what Greg now assumes they get up to in their spare time (though, if he’s honest, the reality is probably ten times pervier than anything Greg’s imagination could conjure), he’s glad they’ve at least been able to establish a boundary so that he doesn’t have to worry about it happening again.

He busies himself brewing two strong cuppas for them, and places Sherlock’s plate on the table. He’s just about to pop upstairs to check on things when Sherlock re-emerges from the nursery, looking tired but relaxed. He folds himself gracefully into his chair, and tucks in without a word.

John smiles indulgently at him and sits down across the table to enjoy his tea. For a while, he just watches him eat, satisfied to see that he seems to be feeling like himself again. Eventually, Sherlock slows, then puts down his fork and picks up his mug, and takes a hearty sip.

John clears his throat. “So.”

Sherlock meets his eyes. “So.”

“How are you… feeling?”

“Fine. Good. Much… much better.”

John swallows, and sets his shoulders. “I’m glad. But I think… I think you should make an appointment with a therapist.”

Sherlock shakes his head resolutely. “No. No therapy.”

John sighs. He was afraid Sherlock was going to make this difficult. “Sherlock, what happened last night was… bad. You need to go see someone. Even if it’s just once, to suss things out. Everyone can use a bit of a top-up now and again.”

Sherlock stares intently into his tea. When he speaks, he sounds so incredibly _weary_ that it takes John by surprise. “I can’t. I’ve… John, I’ve been in inpatient rehab five times since I was seventeen, and outpatient treatment more times than I can count. I’ve undergone hundreds of hours of therapy. I’ve tried everything from medication to hypnosis to bloody _veganism_ , and none of it has cured me.”

“I’m not asking you to be cured, Sherlock. But I’m asking you to keep making an effort.”

Sherlock finally meets his eyes. “I can’t work with therapists, John. Do you realise how agonising it is for someone with my skills to try and _open up_ to another human being, all while my brain is reading every fault and fear and doubt they’ve ever had like an open book? I can’t trust them. I can’t talk to them. I just outwit and manipulate them. It’s a defense mechanism, obviously, I figured that part out on my own, no professional opinion required.”

John’s grip tightens around the handle of his mug. “So then… what do you want to do?”

Sherlock gives him a small smile. “I want to talk to you.”

John shifts uncomfortably. “Alright. So, talk.”

“About…. So about last night.” Sherlock purses his lips, then seems to set his shoulders and soldier on. “I had a moment of weakness. It’s bound to happen occasionally. This is the longest I’ve been sober, and I was due for a Danger Night.”

John bites his lip. “That… that wasn’t a Danger Night, Sherlock. Whatever the hell that was… I mean, you looked like you were about ready to punch your way through me to go get a fix.”

Sherlock averts his eyes to his dinner plate. When he speaks, his voice is soft. “It hasn’t… it hasn’t been that bad in a long time, John. But that case, those kids, I couldn’t stop seeing Rosie, and I… spiraled a bit.”

John tries to stay steady, but he can feel his facade cracking. “It was hard for me, too, Sherlock. You know that. But what would have happened if I hadn’t been here last night? Would you have gone out and gotten high? Would you have purchased product? Would you have brought it back _here,_ into our _home,_ shot up in our fucking _sitting room,_ where we’re raising our _daughter--”_ He’s trying to keep his emotions in check here, but things are quickly getting away from him, and he can feel panic clawing at the walls of his chest. The spectre of Addict Sherlock is haunting him, and he can’t shake the image.

“No, John, of course not. I waited for you.”

John blinks at him. “What?”

“I woke up agitated, more desperate for a fix than I can remember. My arms itched, my hands were shaking, I was craving it so hard I thought I was going to be sick. I got out of bed and went to the sitting room to get my coat, and then I… then I stopped.”

John cocks his head. “Stopped?”

“I couldn’t… I wasn’t strong enough to make myself go back to bed. I wasn’t strong enough to go get you. But I was at least strong enough to make myself sit down, and I told myself that you’d come for me. And you did.”

“But… what if I hadn’t? And Jesus, Sherlock, even though I did, it’s a miracle I even figured out what you needed! That… that whole session was a complete shot in the dark, you scared the shit out of me, I had no idea what I was doing--” John’s voice is rising hysterically, and Sherlock leans forward, attempting to placate him.

“But you got it exactly right!”

 _“But what if I hadn’t?”_ The words fly out of John’s mouth before he can stop them, and it’s only then that he realises how terrifying last night had been; he’d been put in an unforgivably difficult position.

Realisation seems to dawn across Sherlock’s face as he takes in John’s expression. When he finally opens his mouth to speak, his words are soft and measured. “I’m… I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have… That wasn’t fair. What I did to you, that wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t.” John’s surprised to feel tears on his cheeks, and he brusquely brushes them away.

They sit in silence for a long time.

Finally, Sherlock shifts in his chair. “I’ll… I won’t do that again. I guess… if it will make you happy, I can try therapy. For you.”

John shakes his head. “That’s not how therapy works. You have to want it for yourself. And I realise now that’s not realistic for you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinks back at him, confused. “Then… what do you want instead?”

John gives a little shrug. “This. What we’re doing right now. If you need me to help you in a non-sexual way when you’re feeling out of control, we need to start that as a completely new negotiation, from the ground up. We need to formulate a plan for what to do when it happens again. Rules. Boundaries. A list of hard limits. All from scratch. This… this is a different animal from what we’ve done before.”

Sherlock gives him a wavering smile, but there’s a hopefulness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Can I… can I have some time to think about it? I think I’m still a bit… raw from everything.”

John gives him an encouraging nod, and he’s surprised to note that he’s feeling much calmer and more confident himself. “Of course. Write it down, make a list. Let me know what you need when you’re feeling like that, what you want. And I’ll make sure I’m ready to give it to you.”

The look on Sherlock’s face is so full of gratitude that it all but breaks John’s heart. Then Sherlock rises to his feet and in four quick strides, he’s straddling John, kissing him passionately, Sherlock’s hands rising to cup his face, as though he’s something precious and tender. They kiss and kiss and kiss some more, until John’s trousers are feeling rather too tight and Sherlock is grinding down against him rather too enthusiastically for the flimsy wood of the kitchen chair.

John forces himself to tear his lips away. Sherlock stares down at him, love-stoned and dazed. “Bedroom?”

“Oh, God yes.”

They stumble into the bedroom (sidetracked only temporarily when John pins Sherlock against the fridge and snogs him senseless as they frot helplessly against one another) and tumble immediately into bed in a jumble of arms and legs and nervous giggles. John’s vaguely aware that they probably should have paused to undress, but it feels so goddamn _good_ to have Sherlock’s body pressed up against his, warm and strong and so _alive,_ so he doesn’t particularly mind that they spend a rather embarrassing amount of time rolling about on the bed, making out and dry humping one another like horny teenagers, before either of them gets the willpower to bring things to a halt so they can disrobe.

“Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, _fuck, fuuuuck, stop!”_ John desperately pushes Sherlock off of him, where he’d been straddling his hips and enthusiastically rubbing their hardened lengths together through their clothes. Sherlock makes a rather indignant _harumph_ and glares back at John, who cackles delightedly when he sees the state of Sherlock’s tousled coif and flushed cheeks. “Come on, we need to get our bloody clothes off or I’m going to come in my pants.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and rises up on his knees to yank off his dressing gown and throw it unceremoniously behind him, then pulls his shirt over his head and delivers it to the same fate.

John’s breath catches in his throat. Sherlock’s arms are spectacularly bruised from their bondage session, and it’s the most gorgeous thing John’s ever seen. The marks are a deep, flushed aubergine, surrounded by rosy auras where the skin had chafed ever so slightly. The sight of them is so erotic, John nearly comes on the spot.

Sherlock has frozen as well, staring down at his arms like it’s the first time he’s seeing them. “Oh my God.”

John stares up at him, his chest heaving as he fights to tamp down the arousal coursing through his veins. “Good?”

“Oh my GOD, John, yes, good, it’s perfect, it’s so perfect…” He presses his fingers against a particularly dark patch by the crook of his elbow and gasps, a shudder running the length of his body. “Mmmm.” He closes his eyes and presses down again. John can see his erect cock twitch beneath the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms in response.

“Hey, come on, you.” John tugs playfully at the waistband of Sherlock’s pajamas. “You’ll have plenty of time to play with your bruises after I’m done with you. But for now, I believe you were in the process of removing your clothes, and I’d very much like to see that narrative to its logical conclusion.”

“Nnngh, fine.” Somewhat belligerently, Sherlock rolls off of John rather less gracefully than usual and wriggles his way out of his pajama bottoms, which he flings off the edge of the bed before rolling back onto John and pressing the length of their bodies together, a playful look in his eyes.

“Oh, that’s lovely. That’s _so_ lovely.” John runs his hands down Sherlock’s back, the pattern of raised scars there familiar beneath his finger tips. Then he brings his hands down to run them up Sherlock’s thighs until they come to rest on the perfect globes of his buttocks. Unable to restrain himself any longer, John thrusts his pelvis up to grind their cocks together as he squeezes Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock grins down at him in response before swooping in for a passionate kiss.

They move like that for a while longer, John still fully clothed, caressing Sherlock’s nude form as he moves on top of him, breathing each other in. Finally, Sherlock raises himself to his hands and knees, hovering over John.

“Too many clothes. Off.” He tugs at the bottom of John’s jumper, and John manages to struggle into a sitting position so that Sherlock can help him tug it up over his head. The static from the wool catches in John’s hair, and Sherlock laughs and paws at the unruly strands, futilely attempting to get them to lie flat again while John pinches and flicks his nipples. 

Sherlock eventually apparently concludes John’s hair is a lost cause, because his nimble fingers make their way from his unruly mop down to unfasten the buttons of his shirt. He makes quick work of them, then pulls John’s shirt off his shoulders and John pauses his assault of Sherlock’s nipples to quickly shimmy off the offending garment, then raises his arms so Sherlock can remove his vest.

And then they’re kissing again, Sherlock perched contentedly in John’s lap, his fingers buried in John’s hair as John traces soft circles around Sherlock’s areolas with his fingertips, pausing only occasionally to twist his pebbled nipples (and delight in the way he can feel Sherlock’s cock throb against him every time he does so). They’re just moaning and moving in slow, undulating waves, lost in one another completely.

Sherlock pulls away, his eyes glassy and his cheeks flushed, his lips wet and swollen. John expects him to say something, but instead, Sherlock just dips his head and proceeds to kiss a moist trail from John’s sternum down his abdomen to the waistband of his jeans, where he pauses to lap and nibble and the tender flesh of John’s hipbone while his fingers work to unfasten John’s flies. The next thing John knows, Sherlock has freed his cock and swallowed him to the root.

John collapses back against the pillows, feeling as though all the blood in his brain has rushed irreversibly south. “Ohhhhhhh, God! Oh, nnngh, Sherlock, yes….oh, yes, oh, that’s perfect, so perfect, you’re perfect, God! Oh!”

Even after all this time, the sight of Sherlock going down on him still takes John’s breath away. The way his cupid’s-bow lips look stretched around John’s length, the way he uses his tongue and lips and saliva and _just the right amount of teeth,_ the way his jade-green eyes lock into John’s as he reads every quiver and tell on his face… God, Sherlock Holmes performing fellatio is a goddamn _revelation_ every time it happens, and tonight is no exception.

John tries to be good. He uses every ounce of willpower he has not to thrust up into the back of Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock could take him, John knows that, but tonight, he lets Sherlock take the wheel.

And Sherlock does _not_ disappoint. He alternates between long, luxurious sucks of John’s shaft and pornographic licks that trail from John’s balls to his slit in slow, rhythmic laves. John swears and moans and lavishes praise on the man working the magic between his legs, and Sherlock devotes himself adoringly to his task, his eyes fluttering shut and moaning pornographically, as though sucking John’s cock is the most delicious endeavor he’s ever undertaken. John’s rather inclined to believe him.

Eventually, John’s moans turn to whimpers, and he’s forced to speak up. “Nnngh, Sherlock, stop… need you to stop.”

Sherlock pulls off with an obscene _pop_ and sits back on his heels, an appraising look on his face. John grins up at him, then lifts his own hips and shimmies frantically out of his jeans and pants, flinging them off the bed as efficiently as he can. Sherlock observes, looking vaguely amused.

“Mmmm. Come here, you.” John extends his hand and Sherlock takes it, and he pulls Sherlock down on top of him before rolling to flip them over, and he settles comfortably between Sherlock’s willingly-spreading legs. Sherlock grins up at him, and John feels something swell warmly inside his chest. There’s just something so _right_ about this, so _effortless,_ the way they fit together when they’re like this, it’s beautiful and tender and somehow so breathtakingly _simple._ It’s… easy. Being together like this is easy.

John thrusts lazily a few times, their cocks rubbing against one another as he leans down to kiss Sherlock some more. Sherlock hums contentedly into his mouth and spreads his legs further, tipping his hips up and bringing his thighs back towards his chest. There’s little nuance to the insinuation.

But John’s not quite ready for that yet. Instead, he dips his head and latches his lips onto Sherlock’s right clavicle, then he begins to suck greedily, teething lightly at the tender flesh as he does so.

“Ohhhhh, _John! Mmmmm, yes!”_ John grins coyly as he doubles down on his ministrations. The bruises on Sherlock’s arms are so lovely and gorgeous, John can’t help but think of how lovely Sherlock would look with some matching bruises around his neck, and he devotes himself single-mindedly to the task.

He keeps all the marks below the collar, but Sherlock is so lust-addled John’s pretty sure he wouldn’t notice either way at this point. Sherlock pants and writhes and swears and moans as John works his way diligently across his neck and chest, placing a new hickey every few inches, creating an obscene necklace of contusions that will be visible for days, weeks… John’s cock throbs hotly at the thought, and beneath him, Sherlock arches and moans.

Eventually, John is satisfied, and he pulls away and sits back on his knees. Before him, Sherlock is sweat-soaked and shaking, his legs spread obscenely, his cock so hard it’s leaking precome, desperation evident on his face. “John. _John.”_ He reaches behind his own knees and pulls himself open, an offering. 

John smiles and nods, then grabs the spare pillow and helps tip Sherlock back to position it beneath his hips. Then John leans forward to fumble in the nightstand drawer for the lube; it takes him a rather awkwardly long time to find it, and Sherlock is breathing and trembling so hard John’s having trouble concentrating. Luckily, he eventually manages to procure the bottle, and with a satisfied sigh, he settles back between Sherlock’s legs and slicks up two fingers.

He traces Sherlock’s rim gently, reverently, delighting in the way his hole quivers in anticipation as John prepares him for his advances. Sherlock sighs and gasps, and without further ado, John plunges both fingers inside.

The moan Sherlock utters is filled with sheer relief. It seems like every muscle in his body goes lax, allowing John to penetrate him deeply, twisting his fingers as he slicks up Sherlock’s tight channel. Sherlock pulls his knees further back and apart and tips his pelvis up even more, attempting to direct John’s fingers towards his prostate.

“Ah ah, not yet…” John scissors his fingers but keeps them away from the sensitive nub that Sherlock is imploring him to explore. He wants this to be a slow build, and prostate stimulation has a tendency to set Sherlock off like a rocket; it’s best John saves that for later. Sherlock lets out a rather disappointed whimper, but the sound dies in his throat as John withdraws his fingers, adds more lube, then presses back in with three digits this time.

“Ohhhhh, John…” Sherlock’s voice is low and saturated with arousal, and he tips his head back, closing his eyes and John works him over with expert precision.

“Mmmm, gorgeous, Sherlock. You feel ready?” John drags his fingers in and out a few more times, ensuring that Sherlock’s channel is plenty lubricated. He’s still tight, but John knows Sherlock likes the initial penetration to be a bit intense, so he’s saving the real stretch for last.

“Nnnngh. Yes. So ready for you, John.”

“Good.” John sits up on his knees and braces his free hand next to Sherlock’s head, then swoops down to capture his lips in a kiss. Sherlock keens and writhes where he’s impaled on John’s fingers, and John’s cock gives an eager twitch; Christ, he can’t wait to be inside him.

Reluctantly, John pulls away and sits back. He withdraws his fingers and coats them with more lube, then slicks up his own turgid length. He shuffles forward and presses the head of his cock against Sherlock’s fluttering hole, and Sherlock takes a deep breath, preparing to take him. John can feel him relax infinitesimally further, and John takes his cue. He takes Sherlock’s hands in his, leans down on his forearms to bracket Sherlock’s head, and locks eyes with him. Then John pushes fully inside of him in one slick slide.

 _“Ohhhh…”_ Sherlock’s eyes roll back and he arches slightly as John bottoms out. John knows that Sherlock prefers to be penetrated all at once, with no gradual buildup; he delights in the the stretch and burn, he says it makes him feel _desired_ and _claimed._

John gives him a few seconds to adjust. He peppers Sherlock’s cheekbones with kisses, then scatters more across his eyelids, down the bridge of his nose, and across his jawline. Beneath him, Sherlock twitches and whimpers, his body adjusting to John’s presence inside him, gasping as his passage clenches and then welcomes the intrusion.

Finally, Sherlock’s eyes blink open, and his gaze is blazingly intense. He shifts his hips ever so slightly, and John sinks in just a bit deeper, and they both moan in ecstasy. Slowly, John begins to grind his hips; not quite thrusting, but testing the boundaries a bit. Sherlock lets out a breathy sigh, then grins up at him.

John begins to thrust.

John is fairly certain that, considering the amount of profoundly _kinky_ sex that he and Sherlock have, his favourite position should not be missionary. Surely he should prefer something wildly athletic and physically ambitions, or perhaps one of the more salaciously _deviant_ positions they’ve tried, one with Sherlock tied up or held down or bouncing enthusiastically on John’s cock, or perhaps on his hands and knees, begging for mercy as John reams him from every conceivable angle. Considering that when it comes to sex between the two of them, there’s virtually nothing that’s off the table (and hell yes, they’ve done it off the table, on the table, under the table…), John always feels a bit lame admitting that missionary position is still the absolute, unwavering winner.

But there’s something about _this_ that is simply incomparable to everything else that they do. Something about being able to see Sherlock’s face while he’s penetrating him, being able to watch the way Sherlock’s expression shifts and changes as John pleasures him to the fullest of his abilities, gazing down at Sherlock’s beatific expression as his pale eyes and luscious lips reflect the gratification John is imparting upon him. The way that Sherlock’s legs feel wrapped around his waist, strong and warm and grounding--he especially loves it when Sherlock hooks his ankles right at John’s lower back, locking him into place, pulling him ever closer, ever deeper inside. The way that John can hold Sherlock’s hands while he thrusts into him, feel his fingers tighten when John hits just the right spot, clinging to John like an anchor when the sensations begin to overwhelm him.

And then there’s the fact he can see Sherlock’s cock, thick and hard and leaking precome, pulsing eagerly between their abdomens as John moves against him. And when Sherlock starts getting close and takes himself in hand, John can simply look down and watch as he works himself over, his cock reflecting the pleasure John is providing to his arse. And speaking of which - John can then just hazard a glance slightly lower still, and see where he’s entering Sherlock, the vision of his wet cock disappearing over and over between Sherlock’s pert cheeks the most erotic sight John has ever seen, hands down.

So while he adores every single kinky, weird, and bizarre position he’s ever taken Sherlock in… Missionary is still, quite simply, the best.

John reflects fondly upon this as he speeds up his hips ever so slightly. He’s still not stimulating Sherlock’s prostate directly, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind; he’s hooked his ankles behind John’s back and is making rather satisfied gasping sounds every time John pushes forward into his willing body. His eyes are wide and pleading, and John grins down at him.

“Mmmm, _John.”_ Sherlock pulls his hands from where they were entwined with John’s and places them firmly on John’s arse before giving it a hearty squeeze.

“Ohhhh, Sherlock. God, Sherlock, you feel amazing. You’re so tight. So tight, so perfect for me. How do you feel?”

“Good, John.” Sherlock arches slightly and flutters his eyelashes up at John in such a demure fashion that John can’t hold back the moan that escapes from his chest.

“Mmmmm, _yes,_ Sherlock.” Sherlock squeezes John’s buttocks again and tips his head back, thrusting his chest forward, and John takes the hint; he raises himself up onto his hands and lowers his mouth to teeth at Sherlock’s erect nipples.

Sherlock gasps and squirms as John tortures the pebbled buds, alternating playful nips with gentle laves and deep sucks. John delights in the way that Sherlock’s channel responds directly to nipple stimulation; every time he applies enough pressure to one of Sherlock’s nipples, his passage clenches and ripples around John’s cock so deliciously that before too long, John is forced to pull away.

He gives Sherlock a sly smile, and Sherlock grins dopily back at him. He has the bleary, sex-dazed look in his eye he gets when he’s getting close, and John hazards a look down to where Sherlock’s cock is drooling precome onto his own trembling abdomen. His cock looks rock hard and is flushed a deep, angry red.

“Nnnngh, Sherlock, you getting close?” John thrusts a bit harder, and Sherlock unhooks his ankles to spread his legs further, allowing John to sink impossibly deeper inside. He doesn’t relinquish his grip on John’s arse.

“Ahhhh… ahhhh… nnngh, yes, John, I’m...nnngh, ah! Ah! Ah, close…”

“Oh--oh, yeah, Sherlock, perfect, nnngh, you feel--oh! Oh, so good, so fucking good…” John’s hips stutter a bit, and his feet scrabble against the mattress to give him better leverage. He leans forward to tip Sherlock’s pelvis back a bit more, his hands making their way to Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him in place as he begins to plunder him in earnest.

“Oh! John! Oh! Oh!” Sherlock’s eyes go wild, and his right hand disappears from John’s flexing buttock to snake its way between them. Sherlock takes his own shaft in hand, and begins to jerk.

John looks down to watch as Sherlock works over his length, his strokes hard and fast, his grip strong and sure. Christ, his cock is gorgeous, so flushed and rigid it looks nearly painful, and John doubles down on his efforts to stimulate Sherlock from inside, angling his own member to strike Sherlock’s prostate directly.

It works like a charm. Sherlock throws his head back and _wails,_ and his hand speeds up impossibly faster. John devotes his undivided attention to proding Sherlock’s prostate relentlessly-- it won’t be long now.

And sure enough, within seconds, Sherlock’s entire body goes rigid; his eyes fly open and bore into John’s with unprecedented intensity, his thighs squeeze tight against John’s heaving torso, his hands shake and grip until his knuckles turn white, and then his passage clenches down around John’s cock so hard it takes John’s breath away.

“Joooooohn!” And then he’s coming, in hot, messy spurts that coat their chests and stomachs in the physical manifestation of his pleasure. John manages to maintain his relentless assault of Sherlock’s prostate throughout the duration of his orgasm, and Sherlock writhes and moans and swears as he rides out wave after wave of ecstasy, pulling ruthlessly at his cock until he’s twitching and spent.

Finally, his hand relinquishes its hold on his oversensitive member, and he melts languidly back into the mattress.

“Oh, fuuuuck…” John tips his head back and rolls his neck, letting his hands plant themselves resolutely beside Sherlock’s head to give him the best leverage. Then he leans forward, and begins to chase his own release.

“Ahhhhh…” Sherlock sighs and goes completely pliant beneath him. His body is warm and beautiful and so utterly relaxed, John is sinking into him in sharp, swift strokes, delighting in the way he opens up so gorgeously to receive him. Sherlock’s hands find their way back to John’s, and he tangles their fingers together in a gesture so loving it makes John’s chest feel tight. “Mmmm, John, _yes, yes, please…”_

Sherlock’s voice has taken on the rumbling, fucked-out quality he only gets in moments like this, and it lights up John’s nerve endings like dynamite. 

“Fuck, Sherlock, so… you’re so… perfect, _fuck,_ so hot, so tight, God, gonna… oh, God, Sherlock, gonna… need to…”

“Mmm, yes, John, come in me, please. Fill me up, want you, want it so badly…”

“Oh, CHRIST, Sherlock…” John blinks down helplessly at Sherlock’s form beneath him. Sherlock looks so blissful, so perfect and relaxed, John feels completely overwhelmed by the magnitude of his perfection. How was it possible that he got to have _this?_ How, in this lifetime, or any other, was he given the privilege to be like _this_ with _this man?_ It a privilege the likes of which he will never feel worthy.

Sherlock has apparently moved past coherent vocalisation and is simply issuing a series of breathy, erotic sighs, punctuated by the force of John’s thrusts. His eyes are soft and trusting, and John blinks down at him, willing Sherlock to understand just how _grateful_ John is for moments like this one, even if he can’t find the words.

The corners of Sherlock’s lips turn up into a smile.

John lowers his forehead until it’s touching Sherlock’s and closes his eyes, disappearing into the perfection of their union.

And for one moment, they breathe together.

John comes.

He empties himself in deep, satisfying pulses, moaning and sighing against Sherlock’s panting lips. He continues to thrust until he’s shivering with overstimulation, and even then, he’s reluctant to go still.

He collapses onto Sherlock and buries his face in his neck, gasping wetly for air. Sherlock wraps his arms around him and holds him close, making contented little humming noises that make John’s cock twitch despite the fact he’s just come so hard, he feels rather lightheaded.

For a long time, they don’t move.

Eventually, John’s cock grows so soft it’s uncomfortable to remain inside Sherlock. He raises himself slowly onto his hands and knees, and withdraws with a wince.

Sherlock lets out a helpless little whimper, and John bends to kiss him. “You alright?”

“Mmm. Yes, John. Just… feel open.” 

“Mmm. Can I look you over?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock reaches to take himself behind the knees and spread his legs once more. John kneels up and parts his cheeks.

His hole is open and wet, and John eagerly licks his finger and brings it down to trace Sherlock’s rim. Beneath him, Sherlock moans and arches.

“Alright if I touch you inside?”

“Yes, John.”

Sherlock knows how much John loves this part; pressing inside him and feeling where John’s left his deposit in such a private, tender place. It ignites something deep within John, overwhelming in its intensity, the likes of which he’s never felt with another person before.

And tonight, just like always, it’s perfect. John checks Sherlock over for tearing, but finds only warm, wet heat, slick with come and lube that makes John’s cheeks flush in pleasure as he observes it. But he knows Sherlock will be a bit sore, so he doesn’t overdo it. He reluctantly withdraws his finger and leans over to kiss each of his bony knees in turn. “All good.” 

Sherlock nods gives him a satisfied smile and closes his legs, wincing slightly as he rolls onto his side with a sigh.

“Stay here, I’ll get cleaned up and bring you flannel.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock simply closes his eyes and nestles contentedly into the pillows. John has to restrain himself from giving him a good-natured shove; unlike John, who has a perfectly respectable, grown-up sense of personal hygiene, Sherlock absolutely adores revelling in their post-coital sex-filth. John is fairly certain that, if left to his own devices, Sherlock would be entirely content falling asleep covered in his own come and leaking John’s, soiling their bedsheets beyond repair and waking up the next morning a sticky, utterly defiled mess.

...And as tempting as that sounds at times, the fact of the matter is, John likes to keep things tidy. Including his bed.

So he reluctantly rises and pads to the bathroom for a wash, then returns a few minutes later with a warm, damp flannel, which he tosses in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock catches it without opening his eyes, then languidly rolls onto his back and begins taking a few half-hearted swipes at the streaks of come coating his chest, abdomen, and spent cock. John climbs into bed next to him and smiles fondly down at him as he makes quick work of it.

“Want me to get the rest?” John asks the question as innocently as possible, but Sherlock’s eyes still narrow wryly as he assesses John’s expression. 

Luckily, he simply rolls his eyes and hands John the wet cloth before rolling onto his stomach. “Fine. You’re incredibly perverted, you know that, Dr. Watson?”

“Mmm, yes, I’ve actually included that as the byline of my business card, didn’t you notice? Dr. John Watson, General Practitioner, Insatiable Sex Pervert.”

“Mmmph. Must have slipped past me.” Sherlock lapses into silence as John parts his cheeks and then begins to wipe up the lube and semen gathered at his opening. The act is inexplicably erotic to John, and he once again thanks his lucky stars that Sherlock is completely indulgent of this particular proclivity of his.

“Alright. Think that’ll do for now.” John tosses the soiled flannel towards the hamper and flops down onto the bed next to Sherlock, who turns to gaze at him intently. His face is smooth and relaxed, and John can’t resist the urge to reach out and run the tips of his fingers along Sherlock’s elegant cheekbone.

And for a while, they just lie like that; staring dopily into one another’s eyes, John tracing the familiar ridges of Sherlock’s pristine bone structure, at a loss for words and drowning in the enormity of the meaning of it all.

All too soon, though, Sherlock pulls away and sits up, then rises from bed and wraps himself in his dressing gown.

John sighs. “You’re not going to sleep?” He’d rather been hoping Sherlock would be in the mood for some post-sex cuddling, but it seems that’s not the case.

Sherlock shoots him a pointed look. “John. It’s barely past 8 o’clock.”

John throws his arm over his eyes and groans. “Are you bloody kidding me? You’re lying. It’s at least 10, I’m certain of it…”

“Sadly not, and you need to get out of bed, or else you’re going to fall asleep and then wake up at 4 in the morning and I’ll have to deal with you being all ornery and indignant about it tomorrow.”

John opens his mouth to argue, but he’s forced to admit that Sherlock’s not exactly wrong. So he begrudgingly rises and dons his own dressing gown, and they return to the sitting room to pass the rest of the evening. John reads and Sherlock plays his violin, and when it’s finally an acceptable hour, John retires with a soft press of lips against Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock gives him a happy little hum, and John goes to bed feeling relaxed.

He’s still scared. But he’s come to realise that when it comes to the two of them, he’ll probably never not be scared. They have so much to lose-- so _fucking_ much, and they’ve worked so hard for every last bit of it, and the thought of it slipping through his fingers like it had so many times before is a deep, fundamental fear that he’s beginning to realise he’ll never overcome.

But all he can do is this: The best that he knows how. 

And it hasn’t failed them yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To state the obvious: NO, under no circumstances should power exchanges be used as a substitute for professional therapy. This is meant to be foreshadowing for a future installment I’ll have for next month, so the repercussions will be revisited soon.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, love to hear your comments/feedback, so please leave some below!


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